


Three Wooden Crosses

by SpaceNightwing



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death Off Screen, Religion, Roman Catholicism, alternate universe - red hood and the outlaws, alternate universe where jason todd never met bruce wayne and became a pastor, listen when my grandma died i turned to fan fics for healing, one mention of drug use, self therapy because professionals are expensive, themes of grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25759660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceNightwing/pseuds/SpaceNightwing
Summary: What do you do when your world falls apart in a day? How do you cope with it a year later? Everyone's answer is different, and mine was not what I expected. I swear, Pastor Todd was speaking right to me.In which, in an alternate universe, Jason Todd grew up to be a pastor and helps you (me) though a painful day of grief over a lost family member.
Kudos: 2





	Three Wooden Crosses

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, no hate here. At all. I’m hesitant to post anything even hinting at religion on here. But... okay heres the deal. I’ve had this story in my notes for years. Maybe since 2014? 2015? I wrote it when nothing made since, when grief was so overwhelming, fantasy was my only escape. I know nearly every last one of you can relate to that. So when I was listening to one of my favorite Randy Travis songs all those years ago, deep in my own grief, I stayed thinking about alternative DC timelines. In one timeline, Jason was said to have become a Pastor if Bruce had not have found him, no? What is canon, if not a suggestion?  
> So, all that said, this is purely a self insert story where Pastor Jason Todd helps me through a day of intense grief in the context of [Three Wooden Crosses by Randy Travis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UiDjPR9yRDU). Not confusing at all!  
> I’m agnostic, have been for years (didn't know it at the time, but I was when I wrote this) but was raised Roman Catholic. While I don’t believe or deny the existence of a god or afterlife, sometimes when emotions are too overwhelming, it’s better to say fuck theory and just exist in the what I grew up knowing.  
> No hate here. Period. Yes, this story has religious undertones. It’s not preachy. It’s not trying to tell you to believe in anything. This story was, and still is, rooted in my grief healing process. And I’m thinking it’s about time I share it.

I’m not a religious person. Never have been. Never will be. When it seems like the world had been against you for a year, you tend to lose that little thing called faith. Why should I put faith into something that turned its back on my for no reason? 

But at the same time, being here is the closest I’ll ever be to her. She died last year, when I was 18. I was about to go off to college when my world came crashing down. So, in my feeble attempt to be close to her, I go to church on her the anniversary of her death, or her “angle birthday” as she would have put it. 

On this first angle birthday, I find myself is a place that ordinarily makes me skin crawl. But for once, this place doesn’t necessarily feel like home, but more like a place I literally need to be. And I swear, Father Todd picked his sermons because he knew I’d be here. 

Standing at the front of a 150 person congregation, Father Todd starts him homily. “How many of you drive on 71 South?” A few of the actual believers nod their heads. A few raise their hands. Others stair off into the distance like the homily isn’t worth their time. My eyes have drifted to the stained glass picture of Mother Marry. The homily isn’t why I’m here. 

“If you’ve never driven on 71 South, I encourage all of you take that the journey. You see, right past the Blüdhaven exit, you’ll see three wooden crosses on the right side of the high way. I’ve passed these crosses pretty much everyday my entire life, but never really took notice of them. You wouldn’t even know they were there if you weren’t paying attention and looking for them. They’re way back, almost hidden in the tree line. But they’re there. Have been since 1991.”

Some people are checking out, and I’m one of them. Why do I care about some random people that died in a car accident 26 years ago?

“Now,” Father Todd goes on. A white streak in his hair makes the young man look older then he is. “As I’ve passed these crosses everyday for as long as I can remember, I finally became carious enough to look into the names on the crosses. Who were they? What caused the accident? But more importantly, what did they leave behind? 

“I did some digging and found that the crosses were the result of a Greyhound bus accident that had been heading to Mexico. On this bus, four very unlikely people traveled together: a farmer, a teacher, a hooker and a Preacher. These people never had any connection to each other until that day. 

“One of the travelers was headed for vacation, another for higher education, and the other two were looking for lost souls. Unfortunately, I was unable to narrow down who was whom but I was able to track down the families. 

“The farmer, Harvey Brown, left behind an 80 acre farm and a family of four. The teacher, Amy Summers, left her wisdom the the minds of lot of young hearts and minds. The Preacher left a congregation of 200 and faith in the hearts of all of them, plus two more. 

“The hooker was harder to track down. But when her family was finally ready to tell her story, they gave me something incredibly special. The Preacher on that bus gave the hooker his childhood bible, stained with his blood and the blood of his follow travelers. And with the Preachers final breaths, he whispered to that hooker ‘can’t you see the Promise Land?’ That hooker, having been the only survivor, simply shook in fear. In her arms, surrounded by a mass of twisted, crushed metal, were the bodies of a father, a teacher, and a man that followed the path a God. 

“‘Why me?’ She had asked me when I was finally about to sit down with her. ‘What did I do to deserve life, when all of them had so much more going for them? I didn’t follow God. I didn’t have a family or kids that looked up to me. Sure, I had a son on the way, but those people... their lives meant so much more to many people then mine. So many more needed them then needed me. Why did God spare me?’“

At this point, I’m starting to pay attention again. Preacher Todd’s talking right to me; I can feel it in my bones. I ask myself the same question every damn day. _Why did I survive? Why didn’t she? Why did I go through hell when she was freed? Why did she leave me? No merciful God does that to a child. A family._

Father Todd goes on, “I never had an answer for the hooker. How could I? I was 16 when she finally told me this story. I’d been hinting at it for years, but she never wanted to burden me with it. But when she knew she was going to lose her battle with heroin, she finally gave in. She went to her room and pulled this out of her bedside table.” 

From the inside of his priest gown, Father Todd pulls out a black and red bible. The cover is falling off and binding is cracked all the way down the middle. Some pages stick out the side. 

Non the less, the Father holds up the bible for all of us to see. From my distance in the back, it doesn’t look like much. But I can hear grasps in the front rows. 

“That Preacher from the bus gave this bible to her that fateful night. Over the years, she read it to me. I’ll never have an answer for my ma’am, even today after she’s gone. I am not the righteous man that will claim God saves her so that I could go on to follow His holy name; God may have known me before I was born, but I’m not self indulged enough to believe that three people perished, three family destroyed, just so that I could live. What I can only hope, have faith in, is that God chose to call His children home, and allow a wonderful woman another chance at salvation. Whether or not she held true to that second chance, I don’t know. I have faith that she did. I have faith to see her again one day. 

“At this point, some of you may be asking why I chose to tell you this story. Of all horrible things happening in the world, even right here in Gotham, why do I tell you the story of three wooden crosses on 71 South?

“I tell you this story because crisis in faith is a part of life. Crisis is life. If your life is stable then you are not living because life is messy. Life is confusing. Only when we have been called Home do we understand. 

“When you have a crisis of faith, crisis in life or love, do not fear. You can be mad at God. You can lose faith and you can question everything. That is not a bad thing. Life is a journey to the Promise Land and that path is never clear. When you have a crisis, think of this bible and the journey it has been through. It found a way home. You will too.”

Father Todd takes a step back to the altar. He again holds the bloodstained bible up and said “God bless the farmer, and the teacher, and the preacher.” He then kisses one of the only bleed free spaces of the cover and ends his hamolie. 

*** 

Father Todd is known to be a community man. After his sermon, he spends the day among his congregation, eating and sharing stories. Some of the kids tell him about their latest dating ills. Two parents thank him for watching the kids on Saturday night. His ‘Father’ title is gone and he’s now just Jason. He’s one of the community. 

Which is why I feel so damn awkward being here, wanting to talk to him. I had attended his sermon with full intentions to leave the second it was over. But I can’t. I have to tell him something, but what that something _is_ is still a mystery to me . Do I thank him? For what? Do I yell at him? Why? I can’t place these feelings, but I know myself well enough to know that if I try to ignore them, they’ll build and build until I explode on some poor soul that doesn’t deserve it. 

So I follow him when he breaks away from the crowd. As he walks down a hallway, I low key feel like a stalker, but I’m not sure what else to do. I don’t know this man. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t owe me anything. And if I’m being honest, I don’t know what the fuck I want to say to him, so why the hell am I following him?! _Maybe you shouldn’t swear in front of a Preacher and in his church_ , I think to myself. 

I’m so deep in my thoughts that I don’t even realize where I’ve followed Father Todd to until my shoes start to echo on the tile floor. I take a look around and find myself back in the main church. It's empty apart from Father Todd kneeling in the very back pew with his hands folded and head down. He looks so at peace, so focused that I feel like an asshole for spying. Just as I’m about to call it quits and walk away, Father Todd speaks loud. “If something’s on your mind, you know you can say, right?” 

At first I’m not even sure if he’s talking to me. But as his words echo off the large hall I realize he’s waiting for me to reply. All I can say is “ I don’t know what there is to say.” 

Father Todd chuckles. “Yes, life is like that sometimes. But it’s not often strangers stick around after the sermon. Do you need a word with God?” 

“No, actually I was looking to have a word with you.” 

Father Todd makes a sign of the cross and that stands up. When he finally looks at me head on, I noticed several scars criscrossing his face. It’s almost as if he was in that Greyhound accident himself. “How may I help you, sister?” 

It takes me a long time to respond. For the life of me, I cannot put what I am feeling into words. Father Todd doesn’t seem to mind. He stands there patiently waiting for me to say something. When I finally, it’s not what I expected in the slightest. “What do you think your life would have been if you hadn't become a preacher?” 

Father Todd laughs. It’s a deep throat laugh that hints at the fact that he hasn’t laughed a long time. “If I’m being honest, I’d probably be dead. The Lord has saved me in more ways than one.” 

“How do you do it?” I ask before even really know what I’m saying. 

“Do what?”

“Hold onto faith. When life is just too damn hard, how do you do it?”

This time, it takes a long time for Father Todd to respond. It’s as if he’s stuck between telling a brutal truth or lying to my face. Finally he says “I don’t.” 

I’m stunned. “But you’re a preacher, Father Todd.”

“I’m Jason Todd first; flawed in every humanly possible way.” I take in that information slowly. When he speaks up again he says “what brought you to today’s sermon?” 

“My grandma,” I admit in a low voice. “She would say that today is her angel birthday.” I hope I don’t have to explain what that means to a Preacher. Especially one as brilliant as Jason Todd. 

“That’s beautiful.” He says in a low voice, almost a whisper. 

“It sucks.” I say with a lot more venom in my voice and I had meant to. “It _physically_ hurts.” I start absentmindedly twisting my ring: sterling silver horse saddle, Western style. 

Jason picks up on the movement and asks “where did you get the ring?”

“Grandma,” I admit. I hadn’t meant to throw my life story in his face. But here I am. “She bought it when she was 10 years old. She ended up giving it to me on my 10th birthday because I shared her love of horses. And theater. And Disney. And family. And Music. God, I’m so much like her....” my voice trails off as I’m I get lost in the memories of my grandma. 

Suddenly, I realize where I am and who I’m talking to: a stranger who really doesn’t know me from adam. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to babble on.”

“Do not apologize. I understand crisis in faith more than anyone, especially when life doesn’t make sense.”

He then reaches into his back pocket and pulled out his blood stain bible, the one from his sermon. The one that the dead preacher gave his mother. He hands it to me and says “I want you to have this.”

“Oh Father Todd, I couldn’t. That was your mothers.” 

“My mom has left me more than an old bible to get me through. I may not be able to help you in the way that I would want to, but maybe this can offer some strength.”

My throat dries up and my eyes get blurry. Why would be give me something so precious to him? “I really can’t except this.”

“I’ll make you a deal. Take it. Bring it back on your grandmothers next angel birthday and we’ll talk again.”

Very gingerly, I accept the old book. I half expected it to crumble in my hands; no way on earth should i be holding something like this. But as old as it is, the bible is sturdy in my hands. The old weathered pages don’t fall apart. The cover holds fast. When I open the cover, I see the note written: 

“ _To my proud and joy, John Grayson. May this Bible guide you through the darkest times and bring you the light. Your grandmother, Jan.”_

Tears filled my eyes without my permission. My grandmas name wasn’t Jan. But the fact that it came from a grandmother in the first place.... it cannot be a coincidence. Even though I don’t know this man before me, I pull him into an embrace and cry on his shoulder. He gently rubs circles on my back and tells me it will be alright. 

When I finally gathered myself, I thank him for his time and head for my car with the bloodstain Bible held close to my chest, and immediately head for 71 South to Blüdhaven. 

***

I’m not a religious person. Never have been. Never will be. But there’s a reason there are three wooden crosses on the right side of 71 South instead of four. God only knows what that reason is. As I stand on the side of 71 South, staring at names I don’t know, holding a Bible that isn’t mine, and twisting the ring of my past grandmother, I realize it doesn’t matter. Maybe religion and faith aren’t the same thing. Maybe they don’t need to be. Maybe my grandmother is with me, maybe she isn’t. But it’s the memories she left behind that keep her alive. It’s the physical pain I feel, ache in my chest, pit in my stomach, that are proof that she was here at all. Maybe I can live that. Eventually. 

**Author's Note:**

> Love you Grammie, love you Poppy, love you Papa, love you to so many more that have left this world. Not a day goes by that I don't think about you all. I'm sorry if I'm not what you wanted me to be. Maybe someday I will.  
> [Three Wooden Crosses by Randy Travis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UiDjPR9yRDU)


End file.
